Deathbrand
by Stormcrown201
Summary: Months after evading Karliah, Brynjolf, and the Dragonborn, and escaping from Skyrim, Mercer Frey comes to Solstheim for a bit of treasure hunting. Well, 'a bit of treasure hunting' may be putting it too lightly. Mercer is, after all, seeking the treasure of Haknir Death-Brand. But Mercer has done this before. And with the Skeleton Key? There's nothing he can't do.
Mercer sometimes wondered, in his unoccupied moments, if they would pursue him to the ends of Morrowind.

It was unlikely, to be sure. He'd done a thorough job of ruining the Guild, of stripping every last septim and valuable they had from them. He'd spent more than he'd have liked to on tracking down Karliah, but what he had remaining was enough to make him a very rich man indeed. Karliah was unfortunately still alive, and so was the Dragonborn, but Mercer had seen their power for himself and had come to accept the fact that, for all the power the Skeleton Key gave him, he would never be able to defeat them. The Dragonborn was on another level entirely, and though Mercer was undeniably arrogant, he had enough caution and sense in him to not try his luck.

He had evaded them. He had suspected the Dragonborn might survive, and he had known the truth would soon be revealed; this mattered nothing to him. He'd made his preparations quickly, predicting that Karliah and the Dragonborn were likely to pursue him to Irkngthand, and the very instant said preparations were done, he'd set off. The bandits outside the ruin had been pathetic, easily dealt with. They were no match—but very few things were a match for Mercer now that he knew his true limits.

In Irkngthand, however, he'd donned the Shadowcloak. As much as he enjoyed killing things, Mercer was a ruthlessly pragmatic man and he knew Karliah and the Dragonborn—and likely someone else, probably Brynjolf, if Karliah elected to restore the Nightingales—would try to catch him in Irkngthand before he could get away. The more Falmer and Dwemer automatons he left alive, the better. After all, even the Dragonborn wasn't invulnerable, and Karliah had never done too well when confronted with hordes, and combat was not Brynjolf's speciality. It would probably not stop them, but it would delay them. That, of course, was assuming they even got there before he had completed his heist.

Which, in the end, they had not. Mercer saw a great deal of irony in the fact that luck was endlessly on his side. He had betrayed Nocturnal, and no one else had; it seemed more logical that _he_ should have been cursed with bad luck and not the Guild. But that had not been the case, and it gave him no end of glee. In all these twenty-five years, his luck had not run dry, and it seemed quite unlikely to run dry now.

He, of course, did not know the exact details of what had delayed Brynjolf, Karliah, and the Dragonborn. But he had heard vague details, details of dragons and a terrible firestorm, and rumours of three people in strange, caped, inky black armour forced to make camp somewhere in Eastmarch, quite far from Irkngthand. The exact details were irrelevant: the point was, they had been delayed, and that delay had made all the difference.

Mercer had run for the border after that. With all his preparations complete, there was no reason for him to pause. He was determined to set himself up in Skingrad: it was a fine city, one of the wealthiest in Cyrodiil. He would blend in quite well there as one of the rich, living the lavish lifestyle he most desired while continuing to do what he did best. It was a combination he had sought for years before he had finally come across the way he could achieve it. He'd enjoyed the luxury of his life as a young noble of High Rock but hated the court politics and intrigue—and, given that his family resided in Northpoint and was sworn to House Dorell, there was a great amount of both even by the standards of High Rock nobility. He'd taken pleasure in being one of the Thieves Guild but despised the endless restrictions and having to share his gains.

Now he could have the luxury and the freedom to be a thief. It was absolute brilliance.

It was also a shame it had taken him so long to achieve it, and he didn't have as many decades as he would have liked to enjoy it, but Mercer was hardly complaining; it had taken an immense amount of work to get here. It was finally within his grasp, and firmly at that, and he meant to enjoy it.

He didn't like to admit it, though, not even to himself, but sometimes—just sometimes—he wondered about the price he had paid for it.

Gallus. The Guild. Everyone and everything. Not Karliah, he had always hated her, and not Nocturnal—he had loathed serving a Daedric Prince, loathed that he had sold his soul; he had only let Gallus talk him into it because he knew this was a way of getting rich and fast—but… everything else.

Sometimes, he wondered: was it worth it?

He could have left the Guild, struck out on his own, and patiently built up his fortune until he had the luxury and the freedom to be a thief, as he had now. Gallus would have understood, and would have agreed to not have interfered. Gallus had always been sympathetic like that. He had been so charming, so charismatic, that even Mercer could not help but like him; Brynjolf, in comparison, was a classless boor.

It was true. He had liked Gallus. Gallus and he had been partners, even friends. Gallus had given him the Dwarven sword he still wielded today—and why he wielded it, he didn't know. Perhaps it was because of… this. These moments of… regret. The old, lingering feelings of friendship and trust that he had irreversibly broken. Gallus had trusted him with his life, and he had murdered him. There was a terrible irony in that, but it gave him no glee. No, it made his stomach twist.

And for all that Mercer had always been a lone wolf and had never liked to share, there was a part of him that had liked the respect he'd earned in the Guild. He'd appreciated people coming to him for help, even if he had never treated them warmly, and he had received the compliments people paid him well. Even after he was Guildmaster and all was falling to ruin because of him, Mercer had been the most highly respected man in the Guild, and he had enjoyed it. They had trusted him—he had stolen from them, betrayed them, stabbed them all in the back, every moment of every day for twenty-five years.

He had thrown that all away, for himself, for wealth. He had burned every bridge down, and there was no going back now.

So, he wondered: was it worth it?

There had been another option once, one that involved infinitely less betrayal and murder. It would have taken the same amount of time as this had taken him, roughly. Perhaps more. Perhaps less. It had been there, and he considered it and considered it seriously. There had been a time when he would not have considered what he had done in the end.

When had it changed? When had all this become acceptable to him?

Mercer suspected he knew. It was after he had become a Nightingale when he had seen before his eyes the ultimate chance to get rich, that it had become acceptable. Nocturnal's darkness had spread into him perhaps more thoroughly than it had spread into Gallus and Karliah—irony again, given how much he had hated Nocturnal—and it had… changed him. He had sold his soul, and whether it was because of weakness or something else entirely, it had come back corrupted. While it had belonged to Nocturnal, he had let the corruption fester because he saw nothing wrong, but when he stole the Skeleton Key and broke his contract and his connection, the doubts had started. It was as though Nocturnal had given back his soul, and his soul was simultaneously corrupted and… something like what it had once been. Enough so that he had his regrets, and his doubts.

But he had gone on. The corruption had set in, and while he had his regrets, he was set on his path now, and fully prepared to do whatever it took to get what he wanted. Everything Mercer had done afterwards, he had done without a shred of remorse in the moment, but later on, when he had time to think, there had been more doubt. And now, twenty-five years on, he had quite a lot of doubt. But still not quite enough.

He had often wondered, during those moments when he had felt some guilt, some _remorse_ , why Nocturnal had let it happen. Why she had not opened a portal at Nightingale Hall, where Gallus and Karliah had been staying at the moment he had stolen the Skeleton Key, to the Twilight Sepulchre. Why she had not found a way of dealing with him personally. Why she had let it go on and on. Gallus had wondered why she let the Skeleton Key wander, too, and he had posited that maybe she enjoyed the chaos, or maybe she did not care.

In either case… it was all a sham, wasn't it? What was the point of being a Nightingale if it meant nothing to Nocturnal? What was the point of selling his soul and dooming himself to the Evergloam for all eternity if she cared nothing? What was the point?

He pondered if the Dragonborn had realised that yet, and his mouth twisted with bitter irony.

The moment passed, as it always did. Mercer had paid the price, and there was no taking it back now; he had no reason to keep worrying about it. He had made his bed, and he would lie in it. He had what he wanted, and he was far beyond the reach of the Guild, which was undeniably doomed at this point. If he knew anything about Nocturnal, then she must surely have withdrawn even the last vestiges of luck the Guild had left. No doubt, it would fall apart soon enough.

It was no concern of his. He had, as the saying went, bigger fish to fry.

Many years ago, Mercer had started hearing rumours of Gyldenhul Barrow, which was located on the island of Solstheim. He had investigated it casually, but what he had found even then had intrigued him. Some had said it was the final resting place of a legendary pirate king. Others had said it was the richest treasure trove in all of Solstheim and probably one of the richest in Tamriel. Either way, it was worth investigating, and undoubtedly it would have been quite the profitable field trip for the Thieves Guild, assuming the rumours were true.

But it was only months after leaving Skyrim that Mercer had finally started investigating it in earnest. The rumours had not been as thick on the ground in Cyrodiil, which was inevitable, but he had come across a copy of the book _Deathbrand_ , which had given weight to all of the rumours he had heard over the years. He had begun to make inquiries, seeking out adventurers who had been to Solstheim, and eventually managing to find those who had made it as far as Gyldenhul Barrow. All said that though there should be more beyond the first room they had entered, they had found no way of proceeding on. There was some barrier, some insuperable barrier, and they did not know what it was or how to get past it.

There were no insuperable barriers where Mercer was concerned.

So, with this knowledge under his belt, he had returned to Skyrim. He had taken a circuitous route, avoiding the Rift entirely, instead entering through Falkreath, heading up into Whiterun, and then passing into Eastmarch. He had rested only briefly in Windhelm before taking the _Northern Maiden_ to Solstheim, and he had taken a good week to get acclimatised before he had finally set off for Gyldenhul Barrow.

Here he was now.

Hand drifting to his sword, Mercer surveyed the landscape. Apart from the barrow itself, there was nothing significant that he could see—no threats, no treasures to loot. Still, despite this apparent emptiness, he went slowly, dropping into a crouch and moving as silently as he could across the ground. After a near lifetime of thievery—thieves often started very young, and Mercer had been no exception; he distinctly remembered stealing toys from his older brother, Voclain, when he was hardly five years old and hiding them where only he could find them—he was a master of it.

When he reached the barrow, he moved to and tried the door; it was, of course, locked. With a smirk, Mercer pulled the Skeleton Key out of the small pouch attached to his belt that he had made especially for it. He carefully inserted it into the lock and allowed it to drift towards the correct position; it was another trait of the Skeleton Key that he found immensely useful. Once it was in place, Mercer began to adjust it, moving it left and right as was necessary, until he finally heard the distinctive click of an opening lock. Removing the Skeleton Key, he placed it back in his pouch and pushed the door open with nary a sound.

The room he entered was quite bare, nothing more than the sort of catacomb area that was typical to Nordic ruins. Drawing his sword and dagger, Mercer gazed around the room. In front of him was an open sarcophagus with a dead draugr lying in front of it, while to his left and right were another two sarcophagi filled with deposits of what the residents of Solstheim called stalhrim. Also to the left of him was a dead adventurer, who was partially decayed and stank abominably. Mercer wrinkled his nose and was about to look away when he saw a piece of paper slipping out of a pocket on the man's belt. Cautiously, he moved forward, pulled it out, and read it.

Chewing on his lip, Mercer glanced up at the nearest deposit of stalhrim. He did feel a draft, as the note mentioned, and it did seem to be coming from behind that particular deposit. Apparently, a normal pickaxe wasn't enough to even chip it, but that was no concern of Mercer's. The Skeleton Key could unlock anything, including the limits of human potential. Why should a deposit of stalhrim, unusual as it was, be beyond it?

Laying the note next to the rotting corpse, Mercer clambered to his feet, sheathed his sword and dagger, and headed over to the stalhrim deposit. His hand reached out to touch it, and he began to feel for an indentation he might fit the Skeleton Key into. There were plenty of such indentations, of course, being a mineral deposit, and he eventually decided that it didn't matter; if there was something beyond it, then the Skeleton Key would react appropriately.

One indentation was a little deeper than the others. Kneeling to get closer to it, Mercer pulled the Skeleton Key out of its pouch again, and then fitted it into the indentation with as much care as he was capable of—the Skeleton Key might be unbreakable, but it was best to be cautious with it, anyway, especially when he was trying to fit it into a deposit of stalhrim and not a door. To his surprise, the Skeleton Key went in quite well, and rather smoothly. He felt it catch something, and he pulled it further in that direction. Perhaps that would—

There was a crack, and the deposit began to split.

Mercer jerked the Skeleton Key out, and then jumped out of the way as the deposit continued to crack. The stalhrim looked hard, very hard, and he didn't want to be in the way when it finally fell apart.

Within a matter of seconds, it had done just that. Beyond the gaping hole now in the sarcophagus, Mercer could see what looked like a corridor. Going slowly and trying not to trip, he stepped over the stalhrim and into the corridor, putting the Skeleton Key back in its pouch once again as he did so.

He didn't have to go far before he reached a corner and turned around. At the bottom of a short flight of stairs was an iron door; Mercer quickly headed down said stairs towards the door and tried it. Locked again, but of course, it would be. He removed the Skeleton Key for the third time and inserted it into the door, and seconds later, he was pushing it open. He smiled, wondering if Haknir Death-Brand had ever thought of this. He would prove himself worthy of the treasure, all right.

The door fully opened, and Mercer looked up.

For the first time in a long time, his jaw dropped.

He couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. He knew the rumours had said this was the richest barrow in all Solstheim and one of the richest in Tamriel, but _this_ … this was beyond anything Mercer had ever imagined. There looked to be more here than the Guild had ever had even at its height, and that was a _considerable_ amount. The Eyes of the Falmer were _paltry_ compared to _this_. The best thief in the world would _kill_ to get his hands on even a portion of _this_.

This was enough to set gods only knew how many people up for life. Mercer was already set up for life, thanks to the Eyes of the Falmer, but this… if he could take all this, he'd never have to worry about money ever again—and then some. This could single-handedly fill up the Thieves Guild's coffers and make it wealthy again, no doubt about that. This could be damn near one of the greatest heists in history, and certainly the greatest he had ever done and would ever do. He imagined what the others would say—what they would think. All he had to do was defeat Haknir Death-Brand. That was all, and the treasure was his.

And Haknir was a ghost—albeit, undoubtedly, a powerful ghost—and Mercer had unlocked his full potential with the Skeleton Key. He would not be beyond him.

Once again, it occurred to him, with starker irony than ever, that luck was endlessly on his side; that despite all he had done Nocturnal still blessed him with luck and left the Thieves Guild in the lurch; that despite everything, he came out victorious time and time again, and looked to keep doing so; that he was not so much suffering for his sins—as being rewarded for them.

And Mercer Frey began to laugh.

And laugh.

And _laugh_.


End file.
